


Things

by IAmAshamedOfMyFanfics (faraandmera)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Dissociation, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, Gen, the others are mentioned but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 04:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14156259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faraandmera/pseuds/IAmAshamedOfMyFanfics
Summary: He felt something. Something about another person. Felt like he was the one in control of his actions. Like it wasn’t just a thing that happened, but a thing he’d done. He knew it wasn’t a positive emotion. It wasn’t good by any means.But, god, it was something.





	Things

Not feeling control over your own actions- or, even, feeling like nothing around you is real- is a horribly upsetting way to live.

James- Ryan- Haywood feels an extreme disconnect between his actions and himself. On a daily basis he feels like he’s floating, watching his own actions, and feels nothing. How can one feel anything towards the idle actions of someone they aren’t? When his actions are just _things_ that happen. When his words are just _things_ he’s going to say. When other people are just a culmination of _stuff_.

Ryan Haywood feels, on a daily basis, a huge disconnect between who he is, and the world he lives in. Which makes the moments where that isn’t true, all the more important. Makes him hold onto them, and seek out more. Makes the fact that the only time he feels anything being when he’s committing crimes- when he's hurting people- all the worse. Yet, he continues to do so, because he needs to feel _something_.

Anything.

 

When Ryan was sixteen, something happened. He was sitting in his living room and watching TV, when he had a deeply unsettling realization. The characters on screen weren’t people. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known that from the beginning, but suddenly everything he’d ever felt towards them wasn’t real. Their lines were just scripts, their homes were just sets, and everything he felt about them was his own doing. They weren’t real; they would never feel anything. They were just the result of people putting these pieces- these  _things_ \- together to make people feel something towards them.

This realization seeped into other things. Books, history lessons, pets, even the things in his home he once held sentimental value for. They weren’t anything more than things. He couldn't bring himself to feel for any of it. Every emotion he’d ever attributed to them was just that: _things_ that he’d attributed.

It wasn’t _real_.

When Ryan was sixteen, he found himself unable to feel much of anything.

When Ryan was eighteen, this had become true for everything. People were the same. While part of him tried to remember that these people were, in fact, real, he couldn’t feel that. Couldn’t see anyone around him as more than the pieces- the _things_ \- that made them up, most of the time. They were just _things_. Something created to serve a purpose, but nothing he felt anything for.

It was terrifying.

Feeling like nothing around you is real is a horribly upsetting way to live. It was as if a part of him- a part of his life- had been chipped away at until it was just… gone. He locked himself in his room more often than not. Because there, at least, he wouldn’t have to acknowledge that something was wrong. Sometimes- when he did manage to go out and talk to someone, or do something- it was fine. That piece fell back into place, and everything was fine.

But inevitably it would happen again.

When Ryan was nineteen, someone broke into his house. His parents weren’t home, but he was, and the breaking of the window in another room startled him into standing. Everything was a mess in his mind, and before he knew it, he was smashing a lamp into the thieves head. Things. Realization hit him that he was in control of the situation, of his actions. When he stopped, and processed what was happening, he managed to call the police while his hands shook. While a far worse realization set in. Though all he could see the blood as was stuff- as a _thing_ \- that _wasn’t_ true of the man being taken to the hospital. He _felt_  something. Something about another person. Felt like he was the one in control of his actions. Like it wasn’t just a _thing_ that happened, but a thing he’d done. He knew it wasn’t a positive emotion. It wasn’t _good_ by any means.

But, god, it was _something_.

Not feeling control over your own actions is a terrifying way to live. It wasn’t entirely surprising that he found himself relieved, but that only served to terrify him even more. Every realization he had about the situation only furthered that feeling. How relieved he was. How happy he was to have felt something. How much what happened to the thief didn’t matter to him. How little he cared.

Because it was _something_.

Ryan had never thought much of criminals. Ryan had never thought much of people who could bring themselves to hurt others. Part of him desperately wanted to hold onto that. Wanted to keep as much of himself in tact as possible, because he’s already lost far too much. Another part, though, desperately wanted to _feel something_  again. To see people as more than just  _things_. To see his actions as more than just an inevitability. More than _just another_ _thing_ that he, himself, has projected emotion onto.

It starts simply.

One day- after many blurring days of fighting himself on it- Ryan headed out in the late evening and robbed a convenience store. It did very little, he got very little, but it was still _something_. For the first time, in a long time, Ryan looked at the fearful face of another person, and actually felt like it was real. It wasn’t a script, or fake, in his mind. That was a person. They were scared, and so very _real_.

As much as he hated it, that made him feel something. That made him happy. Because it was more than what he’d been able to feel for years. Because his actions felt like something he’d done, not just something he’d watched happen.

It escalated.

Ryan was twenty three when he moved to another city, and it was a few months later when he found what would later become his signature mask. A few months later when the name Vagabond ended up being known in the world of crime. The entirety of those few months, Ryan felt in control. His actions were his own, and what his actions caused was more than just _stuff_.

He met Geoff for the first time that April. They crossed paths, both running from separate crimes, and came together to escape. Geoff told Ryan he was thinking about creating a crew, but Ryan hadn't particularly cared at the time. They separated, and didn’t speak again for years. By the time Ryan moved to Liberty City- the first location of the Fake AH Crew, before they relocated- it had been nearly a decade, and Ryan had all but forgotten about it. Yet, when the crew went speeding past him- followed by police- as he made his own way home, he was reminded of that. Vaguely recognized the faces later, when watching the news, and found himself laughing when he heard the ridiculous way their “heist” played out.

And, he thought, that _sure is something_.

Ryan joined the Fake AH Crew three weeks later, after inadvertently saving Gavin from being shot in the head.

 

At some point, and Ryan isn’t sure when, he starts feeling something other than a vague emotion at his actions. The relief of feeling like his actions are real- that the reactions of people are real, that the lives he takes are real- becomes overshadowed. It’s more than _just_ real. It’s also… disturbingly exhilarating. The rush of running from the police, the rush of taking a life, the rush of successfully pulling something off. It’s more than just “something.”

As much as this disturbs him, it’s hard not to be happy at the stark contrast to his normal, daily life. It’s the _only_  time he feels anything at all, other than the occasional upset at how little things feel real, or how little he feels like he’s the one controlling his actions.

It only got worse- or better, maybe- when he joined the crew. The pure enthusiasm that the entire crew- especially the younger members- exude while pulling off heists was nearly enough for him to remember that they’re real, even without hurting them. So, when Geoff and Jack present the idea of relocating to Los Santos- and expanding the crew- Ryan follows along.

He can’t bring himself to just allow that to get away, after all.

Still, even with this, Ryan never tells them anything. They slowly learn things about him- where he’s originally from, how old he is, his schedule- but he hardly tells them anything, let alone anything important. Ryan wouldn’t even know _how_  to go about bringing it up anyway.

How do you tell someone that you hardly ever feel like they’re real? How would you tell someone that you don’t feel like you have any control over your own actions? How would you tell someone that the only time you feel anything is when you’re doing horrible things? Even if they’re all criminals, there’s a difference between his desperate need to feel, and the motivations of the others. So he says nothing.

It’s just yet another  _thing_ he has to live with.

 

Within the first week of one Jeremy Dooley joining the Fake AH Crew, Ryan has punched him in the face. Ryan isn’t totally sure why he did it, either. Part of him definitely wanted the other to leave him alone, but if he could deal with Michael and Gavin, there shouldn’t have been a reason for such a reaction. He ends up tossing it up to inevitability; something he couldn’t have controlled. Jeremy tosses it up to Ryan being an asshole.

If he’s honest with himself, Ryan knows he had full control over the action. That he felt in control of the action. For the first time in nearly a decade, he almost feels bad.

 

A heist goes wrong. Not to the point of disaster, but about as wrong as heists tend to go with the Fake AH Crew. Ryan, despite being the first to tell the others off for recklessness, finds himself unable to ignore the vaguely positive feeling he has upon this realization. He’s _scared_  of what might happen- to him, and even to the others- and that only leads to him being relieved. Part of him still cares- still feels- and that’s always a relief.

Still surprises him, every time.

The escape vehicle he was supposed to take- along with Jeremy and Jack- blows up, leaving the three to find alternate escape routes.

“I’m going to steal a car, hold on,” Jacks voice rings in Ryan’s ears, the sound of gunshots nearly overpowering it.

“Yeah, okay.” Ryan’s response is immediate. Waiting in one place is liable to get him killed- especially with how close to the original escape route he is- so he heads south, past the original place they’d robbed. It’s dangerous, but then so is any other way.

Someone rounds a corner to Ryan’s right, and Ryan instinctively moves to shoot them.

“Ryan holy shit it’s me.” Jeremy’s voice barely stops Ryan in time, and Jeremy breathes a relieved sigh. Ryan, on the other hand, freezes.

“Be more careful.” The part of Ryan that truly felt guilt- a part that had long since become muted- reared it’s head again. If he had killed one of his crew mates, it would have fucked a lot up. For him, for the crew, just in general. Yet, most importantly, he would have felt _bad_. For the first time in a long time, the idea of that isn’t even relieving. In fact, it's scary. Scary in a way that not being able to feel much of anything for anyone had long since buried.

“You’re the one who almost shot _me_.”

“You surprised me.” It would be a weak defense, had they not been in regular shoot-outs with the police.

“I got a car! Where are you guys?” Jack’s voice cuts off any further discussion.

“Just south of where we started.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there. Don’t die. Or kill each other.”

“Tell that to Ryan.”

 

Ryan never tells them. Never says anything. He wouldn’t know how to start that conversation, or even what to say. How would he even begin to tell them how little anything means to him? Ryan never tells them anything, but they must notice. How could they not? They share a home, regularly end up in high-tension situations together, and have seen him on more than one occasions act with extreme cruelty. It was inevitable someone realized there was something _wrong_  in his actions. His life. Yet, no one brings it up.

The assumption Ryan is under, is that they don’t feel like they have a right to ask. After all, none of them are “right,” or what could be called normal. Geoff views the destruction and lives they’ve taken as very little. As irrelevant. Yet would be the first to tell someone off- or kill them- for what would seem like smaller, more minor things. Jack violently fluctuates from being the “rational one,” and being the most terrifying of any of them. Michael regularly explodes at people, or causes major property damage in place of that, yet is perfectly content to blend in with normal society. Gavin feeds off the cruelty of their chaos, yet refuses to look at dead bodies- even while creating them himself- more often than not.

It wouldn’t make much sense for any of them to question Ryan’s state of mind- outside of joking about him- when they’re just as unusual. Just as questionable.

So, Ryan never tells them about it, and they never ask.

 

Jeremy asks.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ryan takes far longer than he feels he should to process Jeremy’s question, looking up from where he’s been stuck with weapon maintenance duty.

“You heard me.” Jeremy drops down across from Ryan at the table, unperturbed by Ryan’s increasing glare. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Want to be more specific?”

“Well, no normal person does a job like this-” Jeremy pauses to motion vaguely around them- “so what is it? What's wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Ryan repeats the question back, harshly. Where had the question even come from?

“I have no impulse control, and a criminal record.” Jeremy’s shrug is a simple dismissal. Ryan sighs. It takes a moments- where Ryan debates how much this conversation matters, how much he feels like he has control over it- before he speaks.

“This,” Ryan starts, copying Jeremy’s vague motion, “is the only thing that feels real.”

“Shit, dude, that sounds bad.” Despite his tone- joking, dismissive- Jeremy offers a sympathetic smile.

“It’s-” Ryan frowns, considering- “it’s like nothing’s real, except when I’m doing… this.”

“I don’t really get it, but I guess that answers that question.”

Jeremy’s giving him an out from the conversation, Ryan realizes. If he chooses to follow along the lines of Jeremy’s statement, the conversation will end. He wont have to say anything else. And… yet…

“You know how sometimes you’re watching a show, or something, and a character does something so stupid, or just… wrong, that you are suddenly reminded, “oh, right, these aren’t real people,” and it breaks your immersion?”

“Yeah?”

“I constantly feel like that.” Ryan stops, looks down at his hands. He can feel the weight of the gun he’s holding, can see the shadows cast on the table. Yet, for some reason, it’s just _stuff_. Things placed together to appear that way, but not _real_. The feeling isn’t real. Ryan breathes a sigh. “About real life, too. Like everything’s a scripted affair, and I can’t even control myself. Or feel anything towards these… characters. Except…”

“When committing crimes?”

“Yeah. The worse the thing I’m doing is, the more real it is.” Ryan laughs, but it’s hallow. When was the last time it wasn't? “That’s _why_. That’s what’s, “wrong with,” me.”

“So…” Jeremy starts, but then shakes his head. Ryan meets his eyes, his frown a silent question. Jeremy crosses his arms on the table, leans against it, before he finally decides to speak again. “So we- I’m- not real?”

“Not usually.” Ryan gives another sigh, setting the gun down. “But…”

“But?” Jeremy draws the word out, staring at Ryan.

“I might care if one of you die.”

“Ha, well, that’s something.”

Ryan hums in acknowledgement, and the conversation ends. Except, Jeremy’s wrong. Ryan doesn’t argue with him, but he is. Because it’s more than just something.

 

Gavin shoots him accidentally. Ryan is far too startled- and in pain- to even get mad. It is an accident, as a result of the chaotic situation, and Gavin himself already being injured. Still, Ryan hears Michael’s yelling at Gavin, and Jeremy rushing to Ryan’s side.

“Shit, that looks bad,” Jeremy says, grabbing Ryan’s arm- where he was shot- to keep it from bleeding as much as it wants too.

“Could be worse?” Ryan offers, looking down at it. At least it was just his arm.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. So does that feel real?”

“About as real as my sudden urge to murder Gavin.” Ryan shrugs, something close to a smile forming on his face. Gavin, distantly, squeaks out an apology. Jeremy gives a short laugh in response to that, before telling Jack what happened, and that they need help out of their current situation.

“Think that will last?”

“Probably. I don’t know if I’ll get past being shot that quickly.”

“Ah, so all you really need to do, to reconnect to reality, is get shot. Good to know.”

“If you shoot me, I’ll dismember you.”

“Duly noted.”

“Tell me that wasn’t a pun of your name.”

“I wish it was.”

Ryan laughs, and isn’t that just… something.

 

Nothing’s changed. Ryan still floats through most of his own actions. Still doesn’t feel, more often than not. Still has a hard time seeing the things- the people- around him as real. Not feeling control over your own actions- or, even, feeling like nothing around you is real- is a horribly upsetting way to live. And nothing’s changed. Ryan sits in the crew’s apartment, stares ahead blankly, and realizes nothing’s changed. He hadn’t expected it to, though. Doesn’t think it ever will. Yet, somehow, it still bothers him. Even after all these years, it still bothers him.

Not feeling anything, not feeling in control, not seeing anything as something more than stuff; it isn’t just going to stop. He knows that.

But, he thinks, he really would have been upset.

So maybe that’s something.


End file.
